Making stuff

Back in the day, our family had a record player. There were a number of records that I used to play especially often. On any given non-school day, our large living room speakers would blast Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits, Sinatra, or the Beach Boys, and I could be found choreographing elaborate routines in my pajamas and a good pair of slippery socks. Around Christmas time, we had a separate collection of records. Listening to Salsoul Orchestra, La Rondallita, and the Chipmunk's Christmas album was a stalwart tradition that did not buckle, even with the advent of the compact disc player and the introduction of Mariah Carey's Christmas classic to the playlist. We have our Christmas traditions, but they're particular.

Now that Danny and I have our own family, we've started to develop our own traditions, (though I don't think Danny is even aware of it. ) For the past two years, we've taken a Christmas photo. My family used to do this when we were very young but I don't remember taking one since I was ooohh... about this little:


We've been without a dependable camera for some time, so finding the opportunity and the means to take our family photo has been some what of a struggle. We weren't able to take a photo till this past weekend, less than 2 weeks before the big day. Jonny and Hana joined us for our last-ditch effort to keep our fledgling tradition alive, taking the photo on an unseasonably hot December day at a baseball field of all places. It's amazing how many shots you have to get to get a single decent family portrait. God bless my long-suffering brother and sister in law.


A second family tradition that my family never got into but which I attempted to start is baking. In addition to my insatiable sweet tooth, a bucket of egg nog icecream that begs for cakey accompaniment, and some untried recipes in my Southern Living cookbook, I was also inspired by my neighbor's gift:

How gorgeous are those cookies? And they double as puppets!

This year may mark the end of this tradition. I'm a pretty decent chef in my opinion. But I've always said cooking is an art; baking is a science. And I have neither the patience nor the delicacy for science. Amy and Melissa (and Rosie) came over to help with the project this weekend, while Danny was off at work. We settled on sugar cookies, gingerbread men, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and started early in the evening, Melissa watching the kids while I cleaned and prepped and Amy made the dough (which needed to chill for 2 hours before baking).

We took a break at Sawgrass Mills because we're slightly ADD then came home and put the kids to bed. I made dinner while Amy got to baking.

Amy's first batch of sugar cookies were fat, but otherwise, great! As I surveyed her progress, I noted that she wasn't using a timer. "So how do you know if they're ready?" I asked. She opened the oven door to show me how easily this can be determined by simply using one's eyeballs. And it's a very good thing she demonstrated this procedure, for that was how we came to realize that she hadn't removed the plastic wrap from the second baking sheet. And so we salvaged the oven, but not so much the cookies from batch #2. Feeling somewhat frustrated, and somewhat concerned about toxic fumes, we dumped the dough and sat down to eat dinner. About halfway through dinner, she remembered batch number three. And so, we were left with 14 edible sugar cookies for the effort. 10, if you count the un-burnt ones.


"Amy, why do we have so much left over butter?"
"Because we didn't need it."
"...yes, we did."

And thus we realized that we'd halved the required amount of butter for the gingerbread men. One stick of butter is only half a cup. Tell your friends.

Amy melted the butter. In the microwave. Without using a splatter guard. And it exploded. And, once she recovered, had to massage it into the hardened block of ginger bread. Thoroughly dejected, she devoted herself to cleaning the microwave and to knitting Gio's Christmas present for the rest of the evening with Rosie at her feet.


I confidently set myself to making the oatmeal cookies. And after they were done, to humbly peeling the sticky, chunky mass off the baking sheets. By the time we cleaned up and went to bed, it was 1 am and I was dreading the morning.

Amy made frosting in the morning while I took the kids to find black dress shoes for Noemie at Target. (No such luck. Toddler 6 is like the holy grail of shoe sizes). When we came back Amy looked relieved and redeemed: 4 successful batches of gingerbread men, women, and bears, and a large bowl of picture-perfect frosting. Danny says break-and-bakes for next year. I don't know if I can bring myself to do it but knowing the disasters are coming sure does dampen my motivation. For now....

So my forever-long To-Do list is starting to see some check marks. With less than a week before Christmas, I'm almost done hand-sewing Gio's onesie, and I've pretty much given up on the Christmas cards I haven't gotten to writing. I haven't wrapped any gifts, I have to find a white elephant for Emily's party and I have Melissa's gift being shipped to a wrong address... better fix that. Tomorrow we celebrate my dad's 55th birthday with some family friends and some very ugly cookies and then Gio gets here on Wednesday and then we eat lechón on Christmas Eve and then Danny has the weekend off! YAY!

Ah. Christmas. The one tradition I've definitely kept from my parents is to be unnecessarily stressed before, deliriously excited during, and numb after. Amen.